If There’s Blame, There’s a Claim
by Mardy Lass
Summary: An appealing Hunt appears right under the boys’ noses and it’s smiles all round for Sam. But then again, nothing in this job is what it seems. Mid season 2. No spoilers. Rated T for mild language and innuendo.
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's Note:**_

_**I do not own the lyrics, films or established TV show characters herein.**_

_**This is for my sister, in gratitude for introducing me to The Darkness all those years ago.**_

_Thanks for reading, and any comments you feel like leaving!_

* * *

**ONE**

Sam looked up from his casual skimming of his father's journal. He tried to gauge how long it would take his brother to get back from the bar, twenty feet away, with their round. Judging by the conversation he appeared to be enjoying with the barmaid, it would be slightly longer than Sam's patience would allow.

He huffed slowly: _It's like a car crash. I really don't need to see this, but I can't look away_, he concluded.

He watched the barmaid smile demurely and put a hand out to straighten the collar on his brother's shirt. Dean seemed to be oblivious of her delicate touch on his collar and then the shirt buttons, until she let go and instead lifted his amulet. He put his hand up and closed it round hers, his four-alarm smile fading to be replaced with unease.

Sam managed to blink and look away, rubbing his eyes and looking at his watch. He got up, tucking the journal in his pocket, and walked over.

"No, seriously, I hate those real fruit yoghurts," Dean was saying, affecting suave distaste. He had let go of the girl's hand and she put her elbows on the bar top, cradling her chin in her hands to watch him intently. "They got all them pips in them. Definitely not smooth."

Sam put his hand on his shoulder and Dean turned from the bar quickly, his hands aiming for the two long since forgotten beer bottles.

"Oh, hey, Sammy," he said hurriedly. "Look, take these man, I'll get–"

"It's getting late," he said wearily. "I've just gotta get to a bed and crash. Come on," he said dismissively. Dean's face turned suddenly optimistic and heart-breaking in its innocence, his green eyes lighting up with pure shiny, shiny pleading.

"Now? Right now?" he asked plaintively. Sam frowned at him. Dean's face creased into a cheeky grin and he slapped the back of his hand into his brother's chest. "Chill. I learnt that look from you. Not bad, huh?"

"Great. Really, it's… great," Sam said meaningfully. "Motel?"

"Alright, keep your pants on," he said wearily. "You and me both," he muttered to himself as he turned back to the barmaid.

"I'll be in the car," Sam said, giving his shoulder one admonishing tap before turning and leaving him there.

The barmaid sighed. "That guy your boss?" she asked.

"Nah – my pain in the ass little brother," he said sadly. "I gotta go. Poor kid just don't have the stamina like I do," he said pleasantly, and she grinned wickedly. "Know any good motels round here?"

"Maybe I do," she said, reaching out with her right hand without looking. She pulled a business card from the bar next to her and reached behind her right ear, taking down a pen. She looked away from Dean long enough to scrawl something on the card, then pushed the pen back home and slid the card over to him. "And when your brother's safely tucked up in bed, get your ass back here and open a new bar tab," she smiled.

"Oh yeah, hold on there," he said, suddenly realised she hadn't once asked him to settle for the recent beers. He began to slide his hand in his pocket for his wallet.

"No," she said lightly. "When you get back."

Dean looked at her for a long moment, then his eyes narrowed slightly and he looked around the bar cautiously.

"You're not the boss's daughter, are you?" he asked warily.

"Nope," she grinned.

"And ah… your daddy's not around?" he asked suspiciously.

"Would I give you that card if he was?" she grinned.

"Hey!" someone shouted suddenly.

Most of the bar turned to see who had raised their voice so loud above the steady sounds of The Neville Brothers from the jukebox.

It was a man, about half a head shorter than Dean, angry and storming over. A quick flick of the eyes told Dean that unless this weedy guy was some kind of _Heroes_ reject he was not going to present a challenge if it came to it.

He stopped in front of Dean, pointing at the barmaid.

"Mandy! How many times!" he shouted at her.

"Hey, just back up there pal," Dean said quickly, shoving him in the chest slightly to create more room.

"Rob, I was just asking him to settle up," she said defensively. Dean looked at her.

"Oohh, _I_ get it now," he said wisely, nodding.

"You'd better not be getting anything from my girl!" 'Rob' snarled, grabbing Dean's shirt.

"Dude, you really don't want to do that," he said seriously.

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Sam huffed and folded his arms, lifting his back forwards and then slamming back into the passenger seat repeatedly. He mumbled his complaints to himself, knowing he was the only one who either heard or cared anyway.

From the corner of his eye he saw the door to the bar open and someone come out. He watched as Dean approached the Impala, shaking his head like a wet dog. He opened the driver's door and yanked off his jacket shortly, throwing it at the back seat in anger.

"Woah, what the–" Sam began, then just closed his mouth and watched his brother land heavily in the seat, still wiping at his eyes. "Dude, you're all wet," he pointed out, confused.

"Well thanks for that newsflash, Ron Burgandy," he snapped, lifting his arm to wipe his face.

"Is that_beer_?" Sam asked, leaning closer to smell him.

"Where are the keys?" he grumped, looking around the steering column. Sam began to smile, then fished in his pocket for them. He handed them over.

Dean snatched them off him and pushed them in the ignition barrel, before he paused and yanked off his shirt. He scrubbed at his hair with it before throwing it behind him into the back seat.

"What happened, you slipped and spilled Pabst's finest over yourself?" Sam teased.

"God save me from idiot brothers," Dean muttered to himself angrily, pulling his t-shirt straight before starting the car.

"That's a 'yes'."

"No I did not! Do me a favour: shut up," he snapped, looking round the gravel parking lot before swinging the long vehicle round toward the gap in the hedge that served as the exit.

"Then _she_ poured it over you. Awww," he cooed sarcastically, "and you were doing so well."

"Sam, don't make me stop this car," he said curtly, guiding the Impala through the hedge and out onto the road.

"Ok, I get it," he said cheerfully, raising his hands in surrender. He hid a smile as he watched his brother from the corner of his eye. "Do you know where we're going?" he ventured after two or three minutes of enraged silence.

"The first place with a shower," Dean grumped. Sam nodded understandingly and sat back. He waited until he knew Dean had his full attention on the road.

_Then_ he smiled.

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Sam dropped his duffle bag on the bed and then sat on it, testing the mattress. He sighed, unimpressed, but decided it didn't really matter whether it was soft or not, seeing as he'd be asleep before his head hit the suspiciously clean pillow anyway.

Dean tossed his bag at the bed and walked straight past it, opening a closet door before finding the correct door for the bathroom.

"You're lucky it's spring," Sam observed.

"You're lucky I'd rather shower than get into this," Dean said loudly, although it seemed his anger had mostly fallen off during the forty minute drive and subsequent booking-in. He walked back to his bed, pulling off his boots and letting them drop noisily to the floor. Sam withheld judgement, lifting his feet onto the bed to untie his laces slowly.

Dean lifted his t-shirt and pulled it off over his head, sniffing it gingerly and finding it smelt very much like PBR after all.

"Dude, don't even think of sucking that if there's nothing in the icebox," Sam quipped. Dean balled up the shirt and threw it at him, walking over to check the towel situation. He opened the cupboard door and found two fluffy towels the size of bedsheets. In pink.

"Nice," he said sarcastically. Sam grinned, then wiped it off lest his brother turn round and catch him at it.

"You know, she wouldn't be the first–" he began, but Dean was already at the bathroom door, going in and closing it behind him.

Sam sighed, going to the air-con and setting it on cool before going out to the car and bringing in his brother's jacket and beer-stained shirt. He hung them on the back of the rickety wooden chair in front of the desk with the mirror, smirking at them for a few moments. Then he simply stripped off and rolled into bed.

The last thing he heard was the reassuring sounds of a gravely rendition of some song by Filter he only vaguely recognised.

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Dean woke very slowly. He found that odd. As was the fact that Sam was not in the other bed, or the bathroom.

He pushed the heel of his palm into his eye, giving it a thorough rubbing. He ran his hand through his fluffy air, devoid of products since the world's hottest shower the night before.

He sat up, sniffing and looking around, leaning his elbows on his knees to wipe at his face. He heard the key-card thunk into the handle of the motel room door and looked over as Sam wandered in, carrying cups and small brown paper bags. He shut the door behind him with his foot, walking over and smirking at his brother's bed-hair.

"Morning. Guess what I got," he said proudly. He handed a cup to his brother.

"Sammy, I never say this," he rumbled as he took it from him, "but some days I almost love you." He opened the lid and breathed in the coffee fumes gratefully.

Sam carried his cup and the other two bags to the small table with the TV.

"And I brought your stinking shirt in from the car, too," he said helpfully.

"God_damn_!" Dean hissed angrily, and Sam almost jumped, looking over at him. He found him with a face like bad ham, vigorously sucking his upper lip.

"Don't forget it's hot," Sam pointed out slowly. Dean mumbled something past his tightly gummed lips, glowering at the cup. "And look at this," Sam said brightly, turning the laptop round.

Dean sniffed, putting the lid and cup on the bedside table and yanking back the blankets. He walked over and put his palms on the table, leaning over and squinting at the webpage.

"Man found dead in a pool? Woah, that really _is_ freaky, Sam," he said drowsily, turning and walking into the bathroom.

"He drowned right there on the steps to the pool," Sam pointed out as his brother closed the door behind him.

"So? Happens every day," he called over the slight sound of tinkling water.

"Oh really?" Sam said innocently. "Men drowning in an inch of water _after_ they've had their hearts removed? I never knew."

"Say what?" Dean called.

"They did the autopsy and from the blood and water in him, he died from drowning, not the missing heart. Which they haven't found, by the way," he called back. He heard taps running and waited.

"No, no, no – someone pushed him under the water, made him take a great lung-full, then hauled him up and hacked his ticker out with a–"

"It wasn't hacked out. There were no signs of removal," he said smugly. He waited for the inevitable sounds of brushing from the bathroom.

"Oh. Well then… sounds like our kind of gig. Where is it?" Dean called through the door, his words slightly obscured by toothpaste.

"New Orleans," Sam said neatly.

"That's cool – we can stock up on good pie," Dean said, sounding almost enthusiastic.


	2. Chapter 2

**TWO**

The car door squeaked as Sam climbed out and looked around. The street around them was busy enough, everyone going about their day and ignoring the sleek black car parked outside the block containing the gym.

Dean opened his car door and got out, looking at Sam over the roof.

"So why are we here and not at his family's place?" Dean asked.

"Cos this is where he drowned. And he was cremated," Sam said smartly.

"The family know something we don't?" Dean asked darkly.

"Dean, lots of people get cremated every day. It doesn't mean anything," he pointed out with his customary patience.

"Uh-huh. Tell that to a vengeful spirit," he said, locking the car and walking round to the pavement. "What d'you say the stiff's name was?" he asked. Sam tutted at him.

"The _deceased's_ name was Freddie Xaviour," he said pointedly, watching his brother pull out fake IDs and hand one over to him.

"Saviour?" he prompted.

"_Xa_viour," he stressed. "With a zee."

"Oh. I knew that," he said with a shrug, walking up to the door and opening it. He let Sam in first, looking around as they reached the reception desk.

It appeared to be an old building, with red brick inside and a few men wandering about in various states of gym clothes.

Dean walked up to the reception desk and looked at the girl behind it, judging her to be early twenties, chestnut brunette and the playful type. Probably had a bouncy dog at home, too.

"Morning," he said loudly. She flicked her gaze up from her computer before she did a double-take and looked back up. She paused for a long moment.

"Oh. Hi," she said, giving him a smile.

"Hey. We're from the Pools Regulatory Board – come to check on your pumps and pipes," he smiled back, waving the ID at her half-heartedly.

"My pumps and pipes?" she smiled. Sam rolled his eyes and shifted, but Dean rocked on his heels, amused.

"Well that or pipes and _then_ pumps, any which way is fine by me," he said suavely.

"Then I need to see an inspection order," she said, arching an eyebrow. Dean hissed, then looked around the room to check who was watching them. He put an elbow out on the desk, leaning over toward her slightly.

"Well, it's like this, miss…?"

"Reba," she said, watching him with amusement.

"Reba. Nice name," he smiled. "Anyway, it's kinda my fault, but I don't actually have my inspection order with me. You know how them yellow and pink papers get all stuck together just when you don't need 'em to," he said wisely. "And I have to show New Boy here at least two jobs today. We've got by one alright, but if I don't get this one down I'm sunk," he said apologetically.

"Really?" she asked sceptically, eyeing him slowly. He simply shrugged and spread his hands, trying to look pathetic. "You know we've just had the six-month overhaul, everything should be fine."

"Well that kinda thing is why we have inspection orders, it would have been written on there. Except, me being a dumbass, I let it get clipped to the last job's wad. You know men, can't manage paper," he said helplessly.

Reba thought about it.

"Alright," she said lightly, getting to her feet, "but you owe me one."

"Not a problem," he smiled. He looked at Sam as she turned away to rifle through the bottom drawer of a filing cabinet. "Water sample, EMF, usual while I keep her busy," he hissed from the side of his mouth. Sam looked daggers at him. "Go," he hissed, before Reba turned back to them with a large chain of keys.

"Ok, Mister…?" she dithered, turning to look at Dean.

"Paul," he said helpfully. "Paul Rodgers."

"Does he?" Sam quipped. Reba laughed out loud, but Dean just glared at him. Sam put two fingers to his forehead and saluted quickly, turning away and walking across the reception area.

"So," Dean said pleasantly, clapping his palms together and rubbing them as he looked back at Reba, "pumps or pipes first?"

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Sam walked back to the car thoughtfully, leaning against the offside wing and putting his hands in his pockets. He pulled one hand out to check his watch, then sniffed and looked around.

"At least it's warm," he muttered appreciatively, glad he didn't need anything more than a t-shirt for a change.

He looked up at the doors to the building as they swung open quickly. Dean marched out with a face like thunder and the palm of his left hand to his jaw.

"What happened to you?" Sam asked in surprise, watching him wrench the keys from his pocket and clock the traffic before walking round to the driver's side.

"Fell off my bike, Sam. What do you think?" he snapped, rubbing his face before unlocking the car.

"Reba slapped you?" he gasped. "She was all over–"

"No, her_girlfriend_ slapped me," he corrected, wanging the door open and sliding into the car. Sam bit his lip, trying not to smile, as he watched Dean lean over the passenger seat to unlock the door. He opened it and got in slowly, folding himself into the seat and clearing his throat.

"You are just not getting the breaks this week, are you?" he pointed out politely.

"Laugh all you want, trusty sidekick geekboy, but _I_ was the one in the pump room with two lesbians," he said with satisfaction. "What did you get from the water and EMF?"

"Nada. If there was something in the water, it would have been cleaned at least four times by now," he said dismissively. "And nothing on the EMF too."

"Damn," Dean muttered, starting the car. "Family?"

"Family," he confirmed. "Follow this road till the multi-mart, then take a left. Freddie Xaviour's house is right at the end."

"Do we know someone else called Freddie Xaviour?" Dean asked suddenly as he pulled away from the kerb.

"Ah… Don't think so," Sam said. "Why?"

"Just sounds familiar," he muttered, heading off down the road.

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He stopped the car outside a small mansion with a long well-maintained path, killing the engine and looking at Sam.

"Right. Get in there and be nice to his mom. Get all the dirt."

"Why me?" Sam asked.

"Because you got them puppy dog eyes and sorry-ass hair, that's why," he said, putting his elbow on the window block and staring at him.

"What 'sorry-ass hair'?"

"Just go," he said. "The quicker we get this done and dusted, the quicker we eat."

"Fine," Sam said grumpily, looking down the quiet street for traffic before opening the car door. He sidled round the car and walked up the path slowly, finding himself at the front door before he'd thought of an opening line.

Dean leaned over and turned on the radio, keeping it quiet as he rested back in the car.

"Could be worse," he concluded. "Hot spring day, my car, and Sam doing all the work. Oh yeah, could be worse," he breathed with a smile.

The music changed on the radio and he was assaulted by Christina Aguilera.

"Aw hell no," he said quickly, reaching in the glovebox and taking out his box of cassette tapes. He began to sort quickly.

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Sam came out of the house, shaking hands with a tall man respectfully. He turned and walked back to the car, taking his time as he thought about the conversation he'd just had. He reached the end of the path and looked over to see that Dean had dozed off. His bent elbow was sticking out of the open window, the side of his head cushioned on it and Metallica quietly buzzing away from the cassette player.

Sam stopped, thought about it, and then walked up slowly. He bent down, looked carefully at Dean's arm, and selected a blonde hair. Then he tugged.

It came free and Sam jumped away from him quickly. Dean shot upright, banging the side of his head on the doorframe in his disorientation. He hissed, swore, rubbed his head and looked around.

Sam was opening the passenger door slowly, climbing in. "What?" he asked innocently.

Dean looked around, wiping his face and trying to think and breathe at the same time.

"Nothing. Just… fell asleep is all," he said, grasping his wrists and pushing his arms out toward the windshield, stretching them with satisfaction. He looked at Sam. "So, anything?"

"Yeah, tonnes," he said. "The family's not at home, but I've just been speaking to their doctor. The mother died a few years back. Freddie's father is one Carmine Xaviour, a very prominent–"

"Carbine? As in the gun?" Dean interrupted.

"Car_mine_," he stressed, "as in '_not yours_'. Are you even listening?"

"I'm just hungry," he yawned. "Carry on."

Sam huffed slightly. "Have you ever heard of Carmine Xaviour?" he dared.

"Nope. Should I have?" he asked.

"He's supposed to be some mafia boss-type," he said. "Didn't you read about his court case a few years back? Two judges died before he could he brought to trial? It was all over the papers."

"Well unless it was in the funny pages or the Fortean Times, no," he pointed out.

"_Any_way, Carmine Xaviour is a very influential man round here – no-one steps out of line round him."

"So anyone who whacked his son would be found and chopped into fish-bait?" he guessed.

"Probably. Seems Daddy's more upset about his other son though," he said.

"What's happened to him?"

"Nothing yet – but he's kind of autistic, doesn't connect with anyone. The only person he did have any kind of relationship with was Freddie. And now he's dead, the poor kid's going to have to stay locked up in some institution all of his life. Without his brother, he's cut off from the real world," he said quietly.

Dean looked over at the house, thinking for a long moment.

"Well I gotta say I'm not liking this so far," he said frankly. "A cremated stiff, a mob family and no sign of any spirits. How do we know he didn't just get the wrong side of some dodgy hoodoo? We _are_ in New Orleans," he stressed.

"Cos here's the thing," Sam said suddenly, and Dean looked at him, a question on his face. "The younger brother is a Photoshop whiz. And he's making some real creepy jpegs just now," he added, holding up a piece of paper.

"What the hell's a jay peg?" Dean asked, taking the piece of paper from him and opening it. "Yikes," he sniffed, studying the picture. "He made that?"

"He did. No-one knows why, but _that_ one was the first one he produced after his brother died."

"Well I hope he's just seen '_The X-Files_' too many times," Dean muttered, squinting at the bright colour copy.

"Why? I can't even make out what it is," Sam admitted. Dean didn't look up, didn't cease his study of the collage of shapes and blurry furry swirls.

"No reason you would. 'Less you've already seen a real one," he sniffed, folding the paper and handing it back. He put his hand out for the keys, starting the car abruptly.

"And you have?" Sam asked, oddly excited.

"Yup. And I don't mind telling you, Sammy," Dean said, looking round to check for traffic before pulling out onto the road, "if it's what I think it is, we're in for some real shit."


	3. Chapter 3

**THREE**

Dean pulled the Impala into the library parking lot and silenced the engine, moving to get out of the car.

"So what are we doing here?" Sam asked, confused.

"Research, Sammy," he said innocently. "At least, you are. I'm going to go across the street and get proper food, and _you're_ going to do what you do best: dig up records of a Black Shuck."

"A black what?" Sam asked, hastily getting out of the car as Dean's door creaked open and closed.

Dean turned to lock the door and looked at him across the roof, surprised.

"A Black Shuck," he said. "You've never heard of a Black Shuck?"

"Yeah, I got the name," he said, frustrated. "But no, I've never heard of it."

"Well strictly speaking this one's not _the_ Black Shuck, just a huge-ass black dog that takes people's hearts," he said casually, but Sam leaned on the roof and waited. He looked back at him. "Oh come on, Sam," he smiled, amused, "you've never heard the song '_Black Shuck_' by The Darkness?"

"Who?" Sam asked, lost.

"Forget it."

"Dean, I don't get how you think it's some kind of black monster dog from some crazy computer-made picture," he said, confused. "I saw that picture, man, it looked nothing like a dog."

"It _used_ to be a dog. Now it's moved on," he said seriously. "Now it's probably just some spirit-thing that removes organs it needs to survive. Kinda like Christopher Lee in '_The Man Who Could Cheat Death_'. Except he wasn't a dog. Or a spirit. Or taking hearts. But you get the picture," he shrugged.

Sam just stared at him. "And you call _me_ a geek," he tutted, turning to look at the library.

"Just get in there and pull your puppy eyes on the desk chick. She'll cave, get you the right books, and we'll find out how this shaggy-ass undead thing is targeting people. Cos sure as Paul Rodgers sang for Bad Company, this thing ain't stopping at just one heart," he said wisely, turning away and heading for the pavement.

Sam just watched him go, then shook his head as if to clear it before turning for the library.

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Dean's phone began to vibrate in his pocket and he wiped his hands on the napkin quickly, yanking out the phone and flipping it open.

"Yeah?"

"Dean, this could be easier than we thought," Sam said confidently.

"Easy things never are, Sam," he interrupted. "What've you got?"

"A black dog, sighted about a half-dozen times over the past two years," he said proudly. "You need to get over here and see this stuff, it goes on for miles."

"I hope you mean the print-out," Dean said, looking up and waving at the waitress. The restaurant was busy and she didn't see him through the people milling about. He snapped his fingers in her direction impatiently as he spoke. "When was the last time it was seen?"

"Er… other than before Freddie died? Earlier this year, February," Sam replied helpfully.

"Where?"

"Right here – about half a mile from Freddie's house," he said. "And guess who reported it?"

"Don't tell me: Freddie," he said, as the waitress noticed him and came bouncing along. He motioned to the mostly-demolished chips on his plate and she smiled, beginning to clear it away.

"No – his colleague at the pool cleaning company he was working for, Remington McSwain," he said.

"What?" he asked quickly. "Say that name again?" He dug in his pocket for his wallet quickly.

"Remington McSwain," he said innocently. "Crazy, I know."

"Sounds familiar…" he managed, balancing the phone between his shoulder and cheek as he pulled out enough money to cover the cheque.

"You said that about Freddie Xaviour," Sam was saying curiously.

The waitress smiled and left the cheque on the table for him, waving her fingers at him. He smiled a thanks and she turned to go.

"Yeah… So this McSwain guy, anything on him?" He took the phone from his shoulder, his eyes following and sliding down the waitress as she walked away, pretty much unconsciously.

"You're gonna love this – he died a few weeks after the sighting, no heart either," Sam supplied.

Dean realised what he was doing and closed his eyes, rubbing them slightly.

"Dean?" Sam prompted when there was no answer.

"Yeah… just…" He opened his eyes again. "Anyway," he said more certainly, sliding out of the booth and making sure he had his wallet and keys. He noticed the cheque had writing on it and leaned over, picking it up. It was a phone number and he smiled, looking back at the waitress.

"Anyway?" Sam prompted.

"Hold on a second," Dean said, watching the waitress turn and realise he was already looking at her. She smiled coyly and waved her fingers. Dean put up his hand with the paper in it, waggling a goodbye with his free fingers as he started backing for the door anyway.

"Dean? Dean?" Sam's voice sighed impatiently from the phone. He turned to the door and pushed his way out, lifting the phone to his face again.

"Alright! Keep your hair on!" he cried impatiently. "I'm coming over Sam, I'm two minutes away."

He flipped the phone shut just as something closed round his generous bicep and pulled. He stopped and looked round quickly.

"What do you think you're doing?" demanded a man. He was about fifty, Dean guessed, rather short with a broad set of shoulders.

"Hey back off, pal," Dean said indignantly, wrenching his arm free, "I'm going on about my business. I think you should too."

"I think you should give me that cheque," he said angrily.

Dean just stared at him. "It's already paid, pops, check with the management," he said, turning to go.

The man grabbed at his arm again. "I _am_ the management," he bristled, hauling on him to turn him round again. "And you will hand over that cheque with my daughter's phone number on it!"

Dean yanked himself free of his grip and drew himself up.

"Put your hand on me again. I dare you."

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Sam waited, then got up and walked around his little table slowly, impatient and trying to remain calm. He was contemplating standing on the table and pitching a complete hissy-fit to relieve his anxiety when he caught sight of his older brother striding in through the library doors. He had a face that would have put the fear of Winchester into just about any demon as he looked around, spotted Sam, and made his way over.

"What happened to you, man?" Sam whispered, surprised at the rumpled t-shirt, the cut over his left eye and his beloved amulet no longer round his neck, but in his hand.

"Don't ask," he grumped. "What have you got?"

"Right, well… This dog thing was sighted by McSwain, then two weeks later he's dead. Freddie never reported seeing the dog, but plenty of other people did and right around the time of his death, too. What's interesting is that both dead men were cremated – at the request of Carmine Xaviour," he said quietly.

"So the mafia dude is in on this thing?" he asked.

"In on what? You think he's controlling this creature?" he whispered, mindful of the librarians and others watching them.

"I've never heard of one being controlled," Dean admitted gingerly, thinking. "So what's the connection between the three of them, and what does Daddy Xaviour know that we don't?"

"Well, I don't know, but I _do_ have a series of accounts that mention this dog."

"Any at graveyards or crossroads?" Dean asked suddenly.

"Yeah – all of them at the train crossing, south of here," Sam said, surprised. "You've seen one of these before?"

"Oh yeah," Dean said, indicating he pack up his books and notepads. Sam began shuffling his notes into a coherent and neat order, folding them to trap them in their father's journal.

"And?" he asked eagerly.

"The thing almost took my arm off, the evil son of a bitch," he admitted. He paused. "Literally," he added philosophically.

He waited for Sam to organise his things and they walked out of the library, Dean going straight to the car and opening the door quickly.

Sam climbed in and got comfy as Dean started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot rather too quickly for Sam's nerves.

"When are you going to admit someone smacked you for hitting on a waitress?" he asked snidely.

"I'm going to say it was her dad, and I didn't even say one goddamn word to her, and then tell you to shut the hell up except for pointing out the way to the train crossing south of here," Dean said firmly.

"O-k," Sam grinned, then wiped it off before Dean could look at him. But he smiled on the inside.

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"This is it?" Dean asked, pulling the Impala to a stop and leaning his head out of the window.

"This is it," Sam confirmed with a nod. Dean cut the engine and they climbed out. Sam walked across the scrub and spindly grass to the large barriers on their side of the train tracks, putting his hands on it and looking around. "We need the EMF meter," he offered, looking back at his brother.

He was standing by the car door, winding the leather cord of his amulet round his right wrist loosely, holding it in his teeth to bring the other, broken end round. He tied it tightly and nodded to himself before sticking his head and arm through the car window to get the keys from the ignition.

He walked round to the boot, unlocking and opening it, his head disappearing inside.

"You know," Sam said carefully, hearing an arsenal being moved around laboriously, "it would have been nice if you'd mentioned this before."

"Mentioned what?" Dean grumped. "What was I supposed to say – 'hey Sam, there was this really freaky night where I single-handedly tracked, fought off and then killed a friggin' evil-ass black dog, and all cos Dad had ditched me to go drinking with someone I didn't even know'?"

"What?" Sam asked, surprised.

Dean didn't answer, and Sam walked back over slowly. "Dad ditched you? Why?"

"It doesn't matter," he said dismissively. "What matters is that I killed the thing and lived."

"To tell no-one the tale?" Sam asked a little sadly. He paused. "Holy shit!" he gasped suddenly, and Dean stiffened, looking round him to the train tracks.

"What?" he demanded hurriedly.

"No!" Sam said quickly, putting his hands up in surrender, "I meant… Jessica pulled this thing out the paper for me once, said it was funny," he admitted. Dean looked at him.

"Funny," he prompted flatly.

"She said… the picture was a disaster, this dead shaggy dog thing, but the story was real weird, like a Scooby Doo cartoon, she said. Someone killed a huge great hound in Baltimore. Was that you?" he demanded with large, eager eyes.

Dean avoided his gaze. "I don't remember where it was, Sammy, I was–"

"It_was_!" Sam cried, grinning. "Wow," he teased.

"What?" Dean asked, unsure.

"You're my hero," Sam mocked in a little boy's voice.

"Oh god," Dean complained, pushing past him and walking toward the tracks, the EMF meter in one hand and a long silver blade in the other.


	4. Chapter 4

**FOUR**

Dean waved the EMF meter over the tracks, watching it and frowning.

"Nothing then?" Sam guessed from the barrier.

"Zip. If this thing is using this crossing as a base, it's not showing up during the day," he said, turning the meter off and looking around slowly. "Question is… Why here?"

Sam ducked under the barrier and walked a little way down the tracks, away from his brother. He looked up and down it, then around slowly.

"What?" Dean asked slowly. Sam's gaze stopped on the post supporting the barrier. He smiled and walked over, bending down slightly to study it. "What?" Dean asked again, this time impatient.

"What a surprise," Sam said, straightening and looking at him over his shoulder. "Guess who put this barrier here in 1968?"

"Er… some dude named Xaviour?" he hazarded.

"Nope. Some dude name _McSwain_," he said.

"The pool guy?"

"The pool guy. Well, not him, but could be a father or relative," he shrugged.

"Great. So this Black Shuck-like dog-thing has killed this train barrier guy's descendent, who until recently worked at a pool-cleaning firm. Then it killed our man Xaviour who was just his buddy working at the same place. We still don't have the first clue what's going on here, Sam," he pointed out.

"Ah, but Pool Guy's ancestor here used money to get this done, and in this town, in that year, he would have needed to ask a favour of the most influential guy in town," he grinned.

"Mafia Dude?" Dean guessed.

"Mafia Dude," Sam confirmed. "Do you think we should go see him?"

"Sam! You want us to go to the house of the local Godfather and ask him what connection he has to two dead guys – one of which is his oldest _son_ – and if he lent money to some crossing barrier engineer?" he demanded, shocked.

"Ah… yeah," Sam shrugged innocently.

"Ok, _you_ go. When you get dragged out of the local river wearing a concrete overcoat, _then_ I'll sell your laptop for a new carburettor," he said firmly.

Sam laughed, then shook his head. "I didn't think you'd be afraid of an old man in a suit," he teased.

"This isn't some old man in a suit! This is Michael Corleone at his nephew's baptism!" he protested. "This is a stupid idea and we ain't going!"

-------------------------------------------------

Sam rang the bell, appearing very relaxed. Dean stood next to him, hands in his suit pockets, jingling the crap out of his small change.

"Would you relax?" Sam hissed at him from the corner of his mouth.

"I want '_I told him it was a bad idea_' written on my gravestone, just for the record," Dean replied gruffly, fingering the knot in his tie, and Sam couldn't help smiling.

The large oaken door opened slowly and a young woman, blonde and blue-eyed with a dazzling smile, looked at them expectantly.

"Well good evening," Dean said with more confidence than Sam would have given him credit for, given his state of mind.

"Evening gentlemen," she said politely. "May I ask your business?"

"Yes – we're here to speak–" Sam began.

"We're here about the union documents," Dean interrupted suddenly. Sam hesitated, then closed his mouth.

"Union documents?" she asked, confused.

"Yeah – ah – you didn't get them?" Dean continued, shouldering Sam to one side smoothly. He just stepped back, deciding to go with his brother's instincts. For now.

"Me? Why would you send something to me, sir?" she asked.

"Well, not to be rude, but you're the, er, staff, right?" Dean asked with a large smile that could have charmed the paint off the doorframe. She looked behind her into the house suddenly, then swallowed and looked back at him.

"I am," she whispered. "Are you here about the money?"

"Well, not directly, see–"

"Tradesman's entrance," she said quickly.

"Woah, down girl, I don't even know you," Dean said, surprised.

Sam nudged him hard enough to push him out of the way. "When?" he asked her.

She looked behind herself into the house again quickly, then at Sam directly.

"Two hours. Don't ring, just wait," she said hastily, then nodded at Dean and closed the door rather smartly in their faces.

Dean stared at the door, confused.

"It's a back kitchen door?" Sam pointed out, "For use by tradesmen and the staff?"

"Dude I know," he said quickly, sniffing and walking off quickly. Sam shook his head and followed him back down the path and off down the quiet street.

"Why did you do that?" Sam asked. "We could have spoken to the old man himself."

"Exactly! Anyway, if you want the real crack, you ask the servants," Dean said pointedly. "No-one knows more about family history and scandals than they do. You seriously think the Godfather's going to tell us if he screwed Pool Guy's dad over?"

"Fair enough," Sam said, and they walked on in silence, heading for the end of the block and the Impala. "You know," Sam said quietly, "I'm surprised. And a little impressed."

"Yeah – I thought she was hot too," Dean admitted.

"No, I meant… That you knew that. About staff."

"Oh. Well yeah, that as well," he allowed. They reached the car and got in, Dean immediately yanking the tie free from his collar and undoing the top two buttons. "Thank God that's off," he breathed, pulling out his keys.

"So what do we do for two hours while we wait?" Sam asked.

"What else are we going to do?" Dean asked innocently. "Change out of these monkey suits and eat."

-------------------------------------------------

Back in jeans and t-shirts, the two brothers hung around the goods entrance to the kitchens, exactly two hours later.

"Those ribs weren't bad, really," Sam offered. Dean just belched loudly and Sam tutted at him, making him look slightly up at him.

"What? Don't be looking at me like that – you're the one that regularly stinks out the Impala," he sniffed, putting his hands in his pockets and waiting impatiently.

Five minutes later and the wooden door opened a tiny way, blonde curls and an eye peering round the edge.

"Boys?" the girl whispered.

"That's us," Sam said helpfully, and she stepped back, opening the door.

"We have to be really quiet," she said timidly as they walked through and found themselves in a small tiled kitchen. "No-one's allowed to know you're here."

"That's fine," Dean shrugged. "So, if we could just confirm your full name for our records?"

"Oh yeah – Anne," she said. "Anne Osborne."

"Say what?" Dean said immediately, confused.

"Anne Osborne," she repeated, eyeing him. "Why?"

"That name's really… er… Nothing, nothing," he said, shaking his head quickly. "Sorry, forget I said anything. So, Miss Osborne…" he began, then paused and flicked his gaze at the ceiling, murmuring something to himself.

Sam stared at him, then looked at Anne. "Miss Osborne, sorry," he said quickly. "How long have you worked here?"

"I've only been here two years, but some of the girls have been here for ages – seriously, they were here when Mrs Xaviour was still around," she said.

"She's not around any more?" Sam pressed, noticing Dean still muttering to himself.

"Of course not – she ran off with that engineer guy, after Mr Xaviour found out about their affair," she smiled.

"Wow, a regular _Days Of Our Lives_," Sam smiled encouragingly.

"And that's not all," she said, putting her hands to her mouth as she spoke. "And then they found out that poor Freddie, God rest his soul, wasn't even Mr Xaviour's son – he was Mrs Xaviour and the engineer's!" she whispered excitedly.

"Really?" Sam said slowly, nodding. He looked at Dean, who was now backing away slightly, snapping his fingers and looking annoyed with himself as he continued to mumble away. "So… Mr Xaviour must be pretty cut up about it all?"

"Well, I guess he must have been at first. Then he found religion and everything got better," she shrugged. "He doesn't go out to church, but like, everyone knows he's got a room full of church stuff, right next to his study."

"Wow," Sam nodded helpfully, his best innocent face working overtime. "So… now he's all straightened out, I guess he doesn't get angry much?"

"Well, sometimes," she said thoughtfully, letting her hands drop from her face. "I remember when he found out that the engineer's real son was about to inherit a truck-load of money – he was angry cos apparently the old guy had never paid him back for some train stuff they built with Mr Xaviour's money like forty years ago – I don't know what all that was about, none of the others were here then to get gossip. But then the old engineer guy died – it was terrible."

"Sounds awful," Sam commiserated, casting an eye at Dean, who appeared to be wrestling with something in his head, oblivious of everyone and everything else. "Car wreck, was it?"

"Oh no," she said, surprised. "He just dropped dead one day. They say his heart was missing, but… hey, that's just silly, right?" she smiled.

"Oh yeah, totally," Sam nodded cheerfully.

"But that was a lucky break for the engineer's son – he inherited all his daddy's money, and the original lot he was down for anyway. What a winner!" she giggled.

"Sounds great?" Sam prompted.

"Well yeah, until he died. Which was pretty weird, him dropping dead like that. Poor Remy, he knew a couple of the tennis coaches here," she sighed.

"Remy!" Dean cried suddenly, snapping his fingers and pointing at her. "You've got to be kidding me!" he shouted, making her jump, and Sam turned to him.

"Dude!" he hissed, and Dean realised he was being loud.

"Sam – you won't believe this – you know I said those names were familiar?" he began quickly.

"Dean, just shut up for one minute," he said urgently. Dean stopped, looking slightly confused. He slid his eyes over to Anne, who was staring at them both, surprised.

"Yeah, ah… sorry, Miss Osborne," he said quickly, clearing his throat and shuffling his feet. Sam turned back to her slowly.

"Sorry," he said. "My friend here's not very bright," he added apologetically. He knew Dean would be fuming behind him, but he ignored him admirably. "So, this Remy guy – after he died, who got all the money? His mom?"

"No, she was already dead," she said slowly, a little shaken. She looked at Dean, who was shifting his weight from one foot to the other, slapping at his pocket in impatience. Sam followed her gaze and turned to look at him.

"Dude. Stop," he said clearly. Dean eyed him and Sam was extremely glad a lady was present, or he would have feared for his jaw. He made himself turn his back on his brother, who appeared to be skeined tighter than a piano wire, and gave her his full attention again. "Sorry. Please carry on," he said pleasantly.

"Well… I don't know if I should be telling you all this…"

"Oh but we're not going to tell anyone," Sam said easily. "And anyway, no-one's going to know we were ever here, right?"

"Right," she said, uncertain. "Oh what the heck," she smiled suddenly. "Yeah, so, she was already dead, so all the money was to go to Freddie," she said. "Freddie was the son who Mr Xaviour thought was his but wasn't," she added helpfully.

"Right," Sam nodded.

"I guess Mr Xaviour thought he was going to see some of it, having brought him up for twenty years and all," she sighed. "But Freddie came to the house one day, they had this really bad shouting-match, and then Freddie left in a totally bad mood," she said.

"Terrible," Sam nodded seriously.

"And then poor Freddie died too. Must be cursed money," she said darkly. Sam sighed.

"It must be," he agreed. "Well, be glad you're not a McSwain," he shrugged.

"Yeah." She smiled, opening her mouth to say something, but then stopped and turned. "Oh my God!" she said hurriedly. "Someone's coming – you have to go!" she said. "Come back tomorrow night about the other stuff!"

"Will do," Sam said quickly, grabbing his brother's tensed arm and bundling them both out of the door. She slammed the door shut behind them and Sam took his arm again, dragging him away from the tradesman's entrance and out to the street, a good twenty yards away.

Dean shook him off roughly and Sam stopped, looking at him.

"Dude! You do _not_ go off on one like that when I'm doing the puppy-dog-eyes-thing!" he accused.

"Sam, none of it matters!" he said quickly, grabbing his shoulders and holding him still.

"But Carmine Xaviour is the one summoning or controlling this Black Shuck thing, and he's already used it to kill Remington and Freddie, and possibly Remington's dad too!" he pointed out.

"Doesn't matter!" Dean interrupted. "We need to get out of here – _now_!"


	5. Chapter 5

**FIVE**

"Where are we going?" Sam asked as they high-tailed it back to the Impala, waiting faithfully by the kerb.

"Back to the beginning," Dean growled, producing the keys and sliding into the driver's seat quickly.

"Why?" Sam demanded. "Anne was telling us everything we wanted to know!"

"Yeah, and don't that seem a little weird to you?" Dean demanded, turning the engine and revving it. Sam wondered fleetingly if it were to warm it over or just to reassure his brother with its throaty _glug-glug_ roar.

"Well… She did seem a little… helpful," he admitted gingerly.

"_Too_ helpful. Naw, all this started in that bar, and we're going to have to go back there to finish it," Dean stated firmly, casting a quick look round at traffic before pulling out, causing a tyre to squeal in his haste.

"Alright, easy," Sam said, surprised. "What's going on, man? Why have you suddenly decided we have to go back to some nameless bar in the middle of nowhere?"

"Cos that little bar in the middle of Bumblefuck Louisiana was where it all started; trust me on this," he said shortly.

"Ok," Sam shrugged, clueless. "Are you going to tell me about the familiar names now?"

"Remy McSwain? Anne Osborne? Freddie? Carmine?" he demanded, as if it were obvious.

"Er… I would say college friends, but–"

"I didn't go to college," Dean interrupted.

"Actually, I was going to say you don't _have_ any friends." He paused for barely a heartbeat. "Outside of the family, I mean," he added hastily.

"Thanks," he said quietly, and Sam detected a note of bitterness. It was silent for a long minute.

"So anyway, the names?" he prompted hopefully.

"Jesus Sam – don't you watch HBO in them flea-ridden motels?" he demanded, irritated.

"Obviously not as much as you do."

"Dennis Quaid, Ellen Barkin?" he pointed out, his eyes on the road deliberately. "The little round guy from '_Hopscotch_'?"

"You've lost me."

"Dennis Quaid was Remy McSwain, the police dude. Ellen Barkin was the district attorney Anne Osborne – and she wasn't half bad, I'll tell you that," he said, letting himself go off on a tangent. "Looked like she's snap your spine in two, but goddamn was she–"

"I get it," Sam said quickly.

"'_The Big Easy_'," he said, nodding to himself, "one hell of an undiscovered classic."

"All these names come from a film?" Sam asked, perplexed. "How'd_that_ happen?"

"I don't know, but all this shit started after the girl in the bar cursed me," he grumped.

"Woah woah woah – she's _cursed_ you now?" Sam protested.

"Damn straight! Why else would every girl we've met so far be one more chance for me to get stove-piped?" Dean said indignantly.

Sam's mouth worked but no sound came out for a good minute.

"Dean, isn't it possible that you're having a run of bad luck? I mean, come on dude, even you have to have an off-week," he pointed out.

"No," Dean said determinedly. "I'm sure that when we catch up with the lovely 'Mandy' and especially her flake of a boyfriend 'Rob' they're going to be only too willing to spill on this one."

"What makes you so sure?" Sam asked, eyeing the road in the darkness, hoping Dean was paying more attention to it than he seemed to be.

"Oh, believe me, me and Mandy are going to talk about this – and if that Rob gets in the way, one well-placed boot in the jewels and he'll be singing like Kelly Clarkson," he said firmly.

Sam decided to direct his gaze out of the window and count down the miles to the bar.

-------------------------------------------------

Dean climbed out of the Impala, closing the door and immediately disappearing round the back to the boot. He unlocked it and lifted it quickly, not waiting for Sam to appear next to him. Which he did, faithfully enough.

"So what's the plan, Batman?" he asked gamely. "We just go in there like bulls in a china shop?"

"Yup," Dean said with satisfaction.

He lifted and checked the chamber was empty on his trusty nickel-plated Colt 1911 semi-automatic. He sniffed at it before emptying out the seven rounds from the magazine. Sam watched him place one live round in the magazine first, then fill it with six salt-packed capsules. He nodded to himself and reached back into the concealed level, taking out the Taurus handgun and passing it to Sam.

"Why don't we go in and _ask_ what's going on, just for a change?" he offered.

Dean didn't even spare him a glance as he sighed in disgust, closing the boot lid with a slam and walking past him to the bar door. Sam hurried after him and they pushed through the front door quickly, finding themselves in an empty bar room.

Empty except for two old men, sitting at the bar.

"Very quiet," Dean observed, tucking the gun in the back of his jeans and walking over slowly. He leaned on the bar next to them, taking a look around before directing his gaze back at them. "Evening gents," he said pleasantly. "You wouldn't happen to have seen a barmaid by the name of Mandy, would you?"

"Not you too," the closest man said, turning round on his stool to look at him. "Ain't you a bit young to be here, son?" he said, surprised.

"Excuse me?" he asked quickly.

"Dean," Sam said sharply, and the older brother looked away from the man and to the far end of the bar.

"Well, well, well," Mandy said with a great deal of satisfaction, grinning ear to ear. "Fancy seeing you two boys back here. Tonight, of all nights."

"What night?" Sam asked suspiciously, but Dean was already walking toward her.

"Cut the crap, lady," he said harshly, "or whatever you _really_ are. You've got about two minutes to undo whatever you did to me, or you're taking the fast and painful route back to whichever circle of Hell you call home."

"Oh really?" she smiled, watching him stop rather too close to her. "What's Hell got to do with anything? And I didn't do a thing to you, Dean Winchester."

"How do you know my name?" he demanded. Her sudden smug giggle was maddening.

"I know everything about you two. And these two," she said, gesturing at the two old men at the bar with her head. "You know, over the years we've come to believe that brothers are so much more fun than brother-and-sister gigs," she smirked.

"Like you two?" Sam interrupted, spotting 'Rob' appear from the store room behind her.

"Like us two," she confirmed. She looked back at Rob for a moment. "You were right, he's the clever one," she said to him. She turned back and eyed Dean slowly. "But you're the angry one. Over the next few hundred years, you are…" she smiled, putting her hand on Dean's shirt, sliding her fingers round the open edge and pulling on it slightly, "going to taste…" she breathed, lifting her face to within a hair's breadth of his, "so very, very fresh–"

She gasped suddenly and let go of his shirt, trying to back away. But he had a very tight grip on the back of her neck, squeezing painfully.

"What did you do?" he growled at her.

She smiled through the obvious discomfort.

"We did it all for you guys. We know you work hard, we thought we'd just give you something you'd always wanted," she managed.

"What was that?" Sam asked, his hand stealing to the back of his jeans, sliding his fingers along the handle of the Taurus slowly.

"We always try to give brothers what they want – or they wouldn't come back to us on the right night," she said quickly.

Dean let her go suddenly, stepping back with his hand on the butt of his gun.

"And just what _did_ we want?" he asked, confused.

"You love a movie reference or a good hunting trail, something to get those roamin'-dog teeth into," she smiled at him. "So we provided it."

"You said this was for both of us," Sam pointed out warily.

"Yeah – we aim to please," she smiled brightly.

"Ain't that a sign above the toilet?" Dean said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Poor Sam. Must be hard having to live with this guy," she commiserated, and Sam looked momentarily annoyed. "Still, _that's_ not going to be a problem for much longer." She paused, looking up at the taller brother pleasantly. "What we gave _you_ was payback."

"What?" Sam asked, lost. "How could tracking a mysterious shaggy dog over New Orleans be payback? Payback for what?"

"You've got it all wrong," she sighed sadly. "That was _his_ idea of a good time. But how many times have you had to sit there and watch your big idiot macho brother go off with some waitress, or clerk, or stripper, even?"

Sam shuffled his feet.

"Annoys the hell out of you, right? If you'll pardon the pun," Rob put in suddenly from behind them.

"See?" Dean said over his shoulder at Sam suddenly, "they cursed me. That's why every chick within a hundred miles has landed me in trouble. Like I said."

"Not such a dumbass after all, are you, Dean?" she smiled.

"Thanks. Undo it," he said tersely.

"Nah… I think I like watching you suffer for your rewards," she smiled. "And little Sammy is _really_ enjoying those moments where you walk out turning the air blue cos some air-head bimbo hasn't fallen at your feet like usual," she added maliciously. "And that's why we're doing this, after all."

"Face it, you're staying, son," the old man at the bar said unexpectedly. "It's not such a bad life, being her lapdog for sport. At least we get to come back here one night a year for real beer."


	6. Chapter 6

**SIX**

"Screw that!" Dean protested, pulling the gun quickly and aiming it at Mandy. She stayed suspiciously calm.

"Oh no, he's going to shoot us," Rob said deliberately slowly, the sarcasm evident.

Dean flicked his eyes at the clock behind the brother and sister, then back to her. "I'm guessing we've got eighteen minutes to settle this, one way or the other."

"Midnight?" Sam asked, coming forwards and drawing his gun on Rob hurriedly.

"Sound good to you?" Dean asked quietly. Sam nodded firmly.

"She did make a big thing of 'this night'," he replied, trying to remember it exactly.

"So you'd _guess_ – not very reliable, guessing, is it?" Rob put in with a wide smile.

"Alright, try this on for size," Dean said haughtily. "You two are Claimers – twisted spirits that go round providing goods for a price. Kinda like a… a poor man's bargain-basement on-his-ass demon," he said maliciously, and Mandy's face darkened. "Only you can't actually make deals, so you grab people on the sly – give people what they want first, then demand payment afterwards. How's that for a guess?"

The brother and sister exchanged a wary look.

"Looks like Dean-O The Hero has read all about Claimers in Daddy's little book," she sneered.

"Yeah, I can read too," he said sarcastically, "be afraid."

"So how did you get us?" Sam asked Mandy. "I never even talked to you, or you," he said, looking at Rob.

"You didn't need to," Rob said with satisfaction. "Your brother spent enough time on my sister for us to get all the information we needed. We just had to find something on him we could use to transfer a charm to, and a way to open a tab. Oh, you were right," he added brightly, looking at Dean, "We can't do deals. So they're not, they're tabs. Appropriate, for someone like you."

"What's in a name?" Sam snapped.

"_Every_thing," Mandy said.

"Amulet," Dean said suddenly, and Mandy looked at him. "The object you needed to carry the charm round with us? You somehow got it into my amulet?"

"Not bad," she sneered.

"She poured beer over your head!" Sam blurted suddenly.

"Yeah, thanks, I was there," Dean growled at him.

"No, to seal the deal! Beer over the head!" he pointed out. Dean snorted without mirth.

"I think I like the demon way better," he muttered to himself.

"So what do we do now? Stand here all night and shoot anything that moves?" Sam asked, looking round the bar.

"If there's gonna be shootin', I'm asking for an early ride home, Mandy," the older man at the bar said.

"You're coming with us," Dean said confidently. "After we've – er – kinda – sorted this whole thing out," he added, much less certain.

"Well thank you kindly, young man," the other old man said, turning round in his seat. "Trouble is, we been down there so long, we might not look too pretty once we're up and walking round in the air again. I think we'll just go on back to her place," he nodded warmly.

Dean turned and stared at him.

"You have _definitely_ been down there too long, pops."

"Don't worry, very soon he'll have you two to talk to," Mandy said sweetly.

"We know enough to hold you off all night," Sam said bravely, but she grinned.

"You've only got till midnight, Wunder Welpe," she said sweetly, then turned her attention back to Dean. "So what's it going to be? You know we're not normal shades, you can't just pop us with salt or silver and get out of it that easily."

"Then how?" Sam hissed at his brother.

"I'm thinking," he snapped, not taking his green eyes from the girl-shaped creature as his brain turned it over and over quickly.

"Do it faster," he warned.

"Look, if this all goes south then you head for that door like your ass is on fire," Dean said suddenly, "and don't ever scratch my car." Sam felt his breath stop for a second as the implications of what he'd said sank in.

"Should have stayed in school, Sam," Rob chided, grinning evilly. "Then Dean would have just trapped himself, while you were tucked up safe and warm, thinking of exams and revision timetables."

"_I_ did this?" Dean demanded. "If I hadn't hit on her, you wouldn't have noticed us? None of this would have kicked off, and you wouldn't be claiming us for services rendered?"

"You got it, numb-nuts," Rob sneered. "And we've already provided, so it's time for you two to pay your bar tab."

"We never agreed to start one," Sam pointed out.

"Can't help that," Rob shrugged carelessly.

"I'll pay for both," Dean said suddenly, "I instigated this."

"Oooh, big word for a tiny brain," Mandy said brightly.

"Oh you'd be surprised the things that lurk in my tiny brain, lady," Dean shot back.

"Can't take one brother without the other. If only you'd realised who she was when you tried to get into her pants," Rob interrupted. "Tell me, do your knuckles get sore from being dragged along the ground all the time? Is that why you don't want poor Sam to have his own life, cos you need someone with brains to help you get through the day?"

Sam tightened his grip on his gun, bracing himself for the loud report of Dean's Colt. But there was no sound. He spared his brother a quick glance, fearing the murderous look on his face.

But Dean was smiling slightly.

Sam watched him release his gun from full cock, letting his arm fall before lifting the gun toward him. He unlatched the magazine and detached it, surprising the two bar fiends by starting to knock the rounds out of it slowly, into his palm.

"Oh yeah, Sammy's the smart one out of the two of us," he said easily, pocketing six salt-packed rounds and lifting the near-empty magazine again, slamming it up into the butt of the gun with an aggressive snap. "I'm just the hired thug," he continued, yanking the breech block back and pushing the hammer back onto cock with an audible click. "There's no way I could have figured out a sure-fire way to get us out of this."

"You have?" Sam asked, confused.

"Oh would you look at that," Dean said, amused, and Sam followed his gaze to look up at the clock. "Looks like twelve to midnight."

"Yeah," Sam said warily, watching the two Claimers carefully. They exchanged a worried frown before looking back at Dean.

"Still twelve minutes to go," he said helpfully.

"And?" Mandy prompted, viewing his gun with idle contempt.

"And if you know us as well as you think you do," Dean said, his face a study in bravado as he pondered his gun fondly, "then you should know I could never let my _smarter_ brother go down because of me."

Sam tore his eyes away from Rob as he recognised something in his brother's voice he didn't take to. His head snapped round to confirm his worst nightmare.

"Without the original owner of the tab," Dean said as he lifted the gun to his own temple swiftly, "all claims are off."

He pulled the trigger.


	7. Chapter 7

**SEVEN**

Dean jerked violently from the shot and felt himself lose all muscle control in an unequivocal downward motion.

He realised three things in quick succession:

_I can still feel something in my hands._

_I can still feel my hands?_

_I'm still thinking!_

He opened his eyes quickly, finding his face pressed to something cold and wooden.

"Dean!"

The cry came from somewhere above him, and he pushed his hands under himself, groaning in pain or confusion or just plain effort as he lifted himself up. His head collided with something unexpectedly soft as he did so.

Something grabbed his arms and hauled him backwards. He fought to keep his balance, then realised he was actually upright on his knees. His hands found a wide, soft shelf and his eyes focused on it.

His vision cleared and he made out the bed, the blankets all twisted up and the pillows missing.

"S- Sammy?" he dared, trying to turn.

"I got you," Sam's voice reassured him quickly.

It trickled into his muggy brain that the somethings supporting him while his hands found purchase on the bed were actually his brother's hands.

"I'm not dead?" he blurted, surprised.

Sam didn't comment and he just concentrated on letting his breathing slow. He tried to believe he wasn't prolonging the moment, just because the feel of his brother's fingers on his own skin reassured him that he was actually still alive. He waited until he could see properly before shaking his hands off him almost irritably and pulling on the bed to stand up.

"What the h-hell's going on?" he demanded, feeling much more stable as he turned and looked around the motel room.

It was all exactly as they had left it, the night before they'd left for New Orleans. Dean's jacket and beer-soaked shirt were hanging on the back of the rickety wooden chair by the mirror, the car keys and Sam's laptop together on the table.

"What happened, you just fell out of bed?" Sam asked, spooked. "You alright, man? You look… spaced," he judged.

Dean turned around in a full circle, looking around the room quickly and noting all the fine details. He lifted his hands to look at them quickly, noting his watch was still present but his amulet had gone from his wrist. He put both hands up quickly to his bare chest, finding it hanging back where it belonged.

He blew out a sigh and stumbled backwards, sitting on the bed heavily and leaning over, wiping his hands over his face.

"Sammy, what's the last thing you remember?" he dared, looking up at him finally.

His younger brother was standing over him, his worried frown communicating his anxiety all too clearly.

"Me?" he demanded, "What about you? I've had to listen to you cursing in your sleep for the past hour."

"So we've just left the bar, right? We checked in here, right? I washed the beer off then went to bed, right? Right?" he pressed.

"Yeah! Right!" Sam protested. "What's with the twenty questions?"

"So you have no memory of chasing down Black Shucks, railroad engineers or Pool Guy?" he asked quickly.

"No!"

"Mafia Dude?"

"No, Dean!"

"You still pissed at me for hitting on that barmaid?"

"Barmaid?" he echoed, looking confused, "What barmaid? All I remember is you losing a darts match to some biker dude and him smacking you over the head with a beer bottle. I saved _your_ ass, driving us here and letting you sleep off the hundreds of shots you'd had. You see what an awesome brother _I_ am sometimes?" he said pointedly.

Dean sighed, shaking his head and looking around again slowly.

"Well what can I say, Sammy," he said weakly, "it's been a hell of a yesterday-that-never-was. When are you going out for coffee?"

"You _are_ gonna explain this later," he said archly, turning and heading for the table, where his wallet was currently sitting. "Jerk," he added under his breath.

"Hey," Dean said sternly, "don't forget the doughnuts this time." He paused, watching Sam walk to the door of the motel room. "Bitch."

Sam almost smiled but hid it well, walking out and closing the door behind him.

Dean got up quickly, walking to his jacket and sorting through it hurriedly. He didn't find what he wanted and turned to his jeans, pulling them on roughly before yanking his boots on his bare feet and up-ending his duffle, snatching the first clean t-shirt and unfurling it with a snap. He pulled it on over his head and hurried to the door, remembering to turn back and snatch up the car keys.

He went outside and found the Impala parked in the very first space. He felt some relief and crossed round to the boot. He unlocked it and lifted the lid impatiently, cracking the false floor up and shoving his hand underneath it.

His fingers connected with the holster and then the smooth handle on his favourite semi-automatic Colt. He pulled it free but kept it low in the boot where it would be hard for passers-by to see. He slid his fingers over the barrel and then took a shifty look round.

Making sure no-one was around, he leaned forward mostly into the boot and sniffed at the barrel.

"Recently fired," he tutted. He unclipped the magazine and checked the stock: empty. He thought for a second, then put his hand to his jeans pocket and patted it.

He closed his eyes as he heard the unmistakeable tinkle of rounds. He slid his hand in his pocket and counted them against his fingers. Six. Just six.

He opened his eyes and leaned forward again, sliding the gun back under the shelving and into the holster. He locked it home and straightened, closing the boot soundly.

He put his hand up to his temple slowly, afraid of what he might find. What he did find was a slight roundish impression in his skin, almost like a pattern from a pillow he'd slept on.

He wiped his hands together thoughtfully then walked back inside the motel room, closing the door silently behind him. He sat on the bed and thought for a long time. Then he realised he'd need Sam, the smarter brother, and his take on this one.

-------------------------------------------------

Sam came back in to hear his brother in the shower. He ignored the husky singing and sounds of steadily pounding water as he sat on his bed, peeling the two lids off the steaming cups of coffee and digging into the closest paper bag and a savoury pastry.

The singing and the water stopped and it was quiet for a few minutes while Sam sat back against the headboard and thought about his morning so far.

Eventually a fully-clothed Dean emerged from the bathroom, not looking at Sam as he walked round and picked up the coffee nearest his own bed. He lifted it but paused suddenly, catching Sam's attention.

"What?" he asked. "I didn't put anything in it, if that's what you're worried about. I'm not that obvious," he smiled.

Dean snorted with amusement. "No, I'm… I just don't want to burn myself this time," he said.

"_This_ time?" Sam asked. "Are you alright, man? I mean, I've seen you tie one on a hundred times before, but you've never leapt out of bed and made like the Spanish Inquisition afterwards."

Dean actually smiled, turning back to his bed and sitting down slowly. He looked at the coffee, then over at Sam.

"I'm sorry, Sam," he said, slightly amused, but his eyes were anything but.

"What for?" he asked warily. "What did you do now?"

"I'm sorry for all the times I pissed you off, leaving you in the lurch cos there was some chick in it for me."

"You arrogant bastard!" Sam laughed, putting his coffee down and slapping his hands together. He clapped as he laughed, and Dean just waited him out.

"What?" he asked, confused.

"It's all you, you, you, isn't it?" he grinned, and for a second Dean was warmed by the sight of his baby brother genuinely, sincerely amused. There was no dark shadow to the humour, no black edge, no grim attempt to laugh off the darkness; he was just happy.

Something made Dean put his hand up to his temple, letting his two fingers wander over the fading impression of the circular wound that never was. Sam noticed and his face fell slowly.

"What?" he asked quietly. Dean let his hand drop quickly before looking down at his coffee with a face full of guilt. Finally he looked up at him.

"I thought it was just the weirdest dream in the world," he said gently, as if to himself. "But then I found the rounds in my jeans. And the mark on my head. And my amulet," he said.

"What?" he asked, sitting forwards, lost and perturbed by it all. "What about your amulet?"

"It's not back as it was before, it's not untouched cos it never happened – it's been _fixed_," he said slowly. "So… everything really did happen. And you did what you did – even though you don't seem to remember – and… and then I did what I did, and now we're back here," he said uneasily.

"Man, what _are_ you talking about?" he asked earnestly.

Dean sighed, looked around, and then stood up.

"Come on, Sammy. Let's get out of Louisiana," he said quietly. "I'll explain on the way."

"On the way where?" Sam asked, already getting off the bed and picking up his cup and bag hastily.

"L.A.," he said simply.

"Woah, woah, woah, Dean!" Sam protested, as he gathered up his belongings and threw them into his duffle bag. "Why L.A.?"

"Cos there's this little theatre round the back of Grauman's – they show old films right through the night. Right now I just want to get down there and make sure they've got an old favourite playing," he said easily, pulling the duffle closed tightly.

"What old favourite?" Sam asked, sensing a greater purpose and deciding to go with it.

"A really cool old flick – you'll love it," he said, swinging his duffle onto his shoulder and looking at Sam as he patted his pockets for his car keys.

"It better not be '_Revenge of the Zombie Nerds From Planet X_', or whatever shit you made me sit through last time," Sam sighed, walking to the door and opening it.

Dean followed him but stopped to look out, not following him to the car.

The parking lot was nearly devoid of cars and people, but it was flanked by tall, green trees. The bushes were damp from the morning dew, birds flitted about chirping and being cheerful, and just for one second he appreciated the fact that it was daylight, there was nothing to fight standing in front of him, and his brother was waiting for him by the car.

He closed the motel room door behind him and walked over.

"Naw, it's not some horror flick," he said cheerfully, surprising Sam with his unaffected smile and bright eyes. "It's '_The Big Easy_'."

"Well whatever, man," Sam said, uncertain, "I'm not buying tickets, you are. And if this movie sucks out loud, you're buying dinner, too."

"Fine," Dean agreed affably, and Sam blinked.

"Ok," he offered.

"Ok," Dean nodded, opening the car and getting in. Sam slid into the passenger seat and watched him, a little warily, as he started the engine and revved it slightly for a full minute. "Would you listen to that," he grinned, and Sam rolled his eyes.

"Yeah. Great. Can we go? You know, one day you're going to try and start this thing and I'll have jammed a banana up the tail-pipe."

" '_If you do anything to my car, if you even get your fingerprints on the paintwork, I am gonna beat the ever-livin' shit out of you_'!" Dean chuckled suddenly in a pretty good approximation of a New Orleans Yat drawl.

Sam just sat, shaking his head in befuddlement, as Dean grinned at him.

"Dude, that makes me Remy!" he chuckled.

"Great," Sam offered sarcastically.

"And you're Bobby!" he continued.

"O-k. Freak," Sam said slowly, reaching over and flicking his ear painfully.

"Hey!"

"Let's just go, shall we?" Sam said deliberately clearly and Dean's sunny side re-emerged.

"Fine." He checked the position of the car in the lot before sliding it into reverse and backing round slowly. "If the chick on the ticket counter's hot, I'm not making any apologies Sam," he added happily.

"Yeah yeah," Sam breathed. "Let's just go. I've had about as much good cheer from you as I can take in one morning."

"Oh, so I'm not allowed to be cheerful now?"

"I didn't say th–"

"You _want_ your older brother to be miserable, is that it?"

"Just go!"

"Alright dude, but when I start singing–"

"_Just drive the goddamn car!_"

**THE END**


End file.
